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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28615221">Transatlanticism</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cfrazi318/pseuds/cfrazi318'>cfrazi318</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Major Original Character(s), Ratings: R, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:28:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,194</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28615221</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cfrazi318/pseuds/cfrazi318</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Giana Gaunt moves next door to a certain Bellamy Blake...will they get along or will they click (hint: slow burn). CLarke is in this, but on a friendly basis.</p><p>"the incomprehensible emotional gap between two lovers separated by comprehensible distances" -  Transatlanticism</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sweltering</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>First time fic writer/poster...be kind &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Giana POV </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Giana sighed and wiped her brow with the back of her left hand; her other hand and arm too loaded down with boxes, plants; truly a treasure trove of items because Giana had never quite mastered the art of moving-despite juggling between homes with her erratic mother and younger brother. Peter, Giana’s brother, was five years younger and the responsibility to raise him fell on her, because of their mother’s issues. Giana had suffered the most, but to her, she would have always preferred it to be on her shoulders rather than Peter’s. </p><p>Her mother had not started out her intentions of motherhood to be single, impulsive, rash, and developing a drug problem along with her already severe alcoholism. Being as her father had turned tail and ran when Lisle; Giana’s mother, had told him he was to be a father, fate had been kind for once in the Gaunts’ life. A distant relative no one in the family had spoken to for years had left them a sizable amount of money ($43,000,000 to be exact), leaving Lisle, Peter, and Giana a sum of $14,333,333, respectively. Giana, being only 26, almost 27, still worked as a mortician and medical examiner, however.  </p><p>The man, Norman Gaunt, had also left them a house. Her mother bought a beautiful townhome right on the coast of Norway, and Peter, before his death, had bought a sprawling mass of land in Norway as well. Gianna tried her hardest not to think about her brother, the fresh wounds peeling wide open every time she pictured his lifeless face; spattered with blood after a fatal car accident. Missing Peter was a poison she drank often. </p><p>Norman’s house, hidden away in a grove of trees, Giana had decided to keep. It was a rustic, sprawling old place but with the right amount of love and care, the house would be breathtaking, with its fully wrapped around porch, completely screened, the woods densely surrounding the house running alongside the creek. The only other property near her, that she could see, was less than half a mile on the other side of her gravel driveway; being that her home was nestled into the woods.  </p><p>And so there Giana sat, on the front steps of the screened in porch, legs stretched and glistening from all the arduous work. Giana sat and stared at her legs in silence for a moment, pondering her next tattoo. Her left leg was completely covered in the ink; save for the foot. She was working on the right leg, as well as both of her half-done sleeves on her arms.  </p><p>Tattoos spread down her fingers, in small, tight black dots with a crescent moon on the ring finger, a Greek saying on her chest, two on each hip, a cherry blossom tree starting from her right lower hip and making its way to cover her back and wrap around the cradle directly under her Grecian chest piece. A large tribute to her Romanian heritage, a detailed caravan with she and Peter on it covered her back. More on the back of her neck, and right hand, but she had lost count by now.  </p><p> </p><p>Her tight, almost Spandex-like cotton shorts framed her bottom well, although no one was around to see it. The dark olive-green crop-top she had stopped just before her belly button started, with a slightly scooped neck, revealing no cleavage, just the Eye of Horus and Jade Buddha necklace she wore intermittently. Giana’s slightly curly (even though she had tried to straighten it this morning) jet black hair, so black it was almost blue; pulled up in a half bun with a pair of dark marble-colored chopsticks and a pen.  </p><p>Giana’s eyes were what normally first caught the attention; along with the high cheekbones due to the Native American; (Cherokee) and Romani Gypsy, in her. Large, emerald green, a deep pit of emeralds with hazy golden flecks fully noticeable in them, framed by long, thick, black lashes. Those eyes told you truthfully how she felt, but she was able to easily slip into another persona, another shell. Her full, heart-shaped lips twisted with frustration out of the sheer fact that she had meant to go to the store and get liquor (God knows she would need it), problem being by the time she found one, they would be closed.  </p><p>New Orleans, Louisiana was still a mystery to her, since this was the first time she would ever “plant roots,” so to speak. Sure, she had moved out a few times here and there but somehow, she always knew it was temporary. It did not feel temporary here, and while she was busy staring into the night sky, she did not hear the approaching footsteps.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Sweltering</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>............</p><p>Bellamy POV </p><p>Saturdays, and Sundays were Bellamy’s only days off from his job teaching history at the local college. He had been sitting on his front porch watching the new neighbor for a few hours, off and on, knowing she was not focused on him. He was trying to determine if she would be a threat to him, or his sister Octavia, who lived a few miles over. He had risen her after their mother had died. Bellamy had been eight. It had been hard, living from relative to relative but running anytime they mentioned foster care, but they survived. He had made sure of it, and always would. </p><p>Something caught his attention at the home next-door. The woman had stopped trying to be Super-Woman with her relentless furniture moving all afternoon, finally, looking like she barely weighed 110lbs. Bellamy watched her stretch out on the porch steps and could vaguely, possibly, see what looked like a not-so-hidden glare up at the sky, as if God himself had just personally persecuted her. Still being unable to make out her features, Bellamy glanced at the almost full whiskey bottle next to him, thought only a split second, and grabbed two cups, the whiskey, and a niggling thought in his head that “welcoming the neighbors” was not something Bellamy Blake did.  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Coming across the gravel driveway, she still did not look up. She was staring upwards at the Heavens, lost in thought. Bellamy cleared his throat, and said, awkwardly, “Ah-hi. I live, uh next door and you-uh-you looked like you could use some. Whiskey, I mean.” He stuttered, tripped over himself; the normally smooth and collected Bellamy Blake was like a schoolboy once she had tilted her face towards him, having not heard him walk up.  </p><p>She was beautiful. That one word alone was not enough to describe her. No words could. She had an ethereal beauty and he felt as if lightening had struck him. Long, half up, half down jet-black hair, the tanned olive skin tone paired with high cheekbones, long lashes, screamed Native American (and possibly Gypsy...) if you had seen enough of them in person. She had full, luscious, naturally tinted pink lips, shaped like a heart, a dash of dark, dark brown freckles from ear to ear, across her thin nose, up turned at the end slightly, like a rabbit, or a fairy. Then there were her eyes. Nothing could have prepared him for those. Deep, soul-seeing, endless depths of emerald green with golden, pure gold flecks visible in each jewel-like eye.  </p><p>It was only then he noticed she had replied. From the way she was staring at him, he felt as if he had made a food of himself. </p><p>“I’m sorry. I zoned out; I was just wondering if you were Native American? Or Gypsy?” Bellamy asked, knowing it was a lame cover but the best he could muster for staring at her like a drooling animal.  </p><p>She smiled at him and it felt like someone hit him in the gut. Her entire face lit up; it was like the sun rising.  </p><p>“I am, yes. Full blooded on my absent father’s side. My mother is Romani Gypsy. And I would, desperately, most desperately, love a drink right now. I was just cursing everything that I had waited so late to get some, and I have no clue where the nearest store is and-I am rambling. I’m sorry. I am Giana. Giana Gaunt.” </p><p>“Giana,” he thought, and his next thought, “I am so, insanely, irrevocably, fucked.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Irrevocably</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They moved to sit on the porch, which currently consisted a barrage of different items:  kitchenware, photos, tapestries, and boxes of boxes of books. There was only one porch swing, being her first day in, she explained, and as they sat next to one another; slowly turning to face the other, legs crossed, laughing, and explaining themselves. He learned about the mysterious family home and money, but that she still worked at the morgue, and she loved to read. They discussed Gypsy and Cherokee culture for hours.  </p><p>In turn, he told her about his job at the college nearby, his overt history obsession, local legends and haunts (she adored haunted things, he discovered), his love for reading as well as a passion for playing guitar. Learning guitar was still new to him, as he’d only picked it up since O had asked him to play, and sing, at her wedding to Lincoln a few years before. </p><p>He was still finding himself staring at her sometimes, mesmerized by the way she had dimples, or how her nose wrinkled up when she was about to say something funny. The way she had on no make-up, and her eyebrows suited her face. She was stunning, even after moving and getting dirty. Not to mention, the fact that she was covered in tattoos made him realize he had a serious tattoo fetish.  </p><p>“So, Bellamy-,” she began, and noticing the way his name slid out of her mouth like a prayer, was instantly captivated.  </p><p>“You seem more creative than me. I mean, the guitar playing, you know. Would you mind helping me turn the attic into a tiny painting loft?” </p><p>“Of course,” he said, a little too quickly.  </p><p>Jesus, Bellamy was so fucked. When she smiled shyly, gratefully at him, and stood to offer him her hand, he almost threw fuck-all to the wind and kissed her then. He managed to keep his composure, but her hand hit his and it was like a spark. Giana jumped and held her hand to her chest like she had been burned.  </p><p>A thoughtful look flashed across her face, before a determined one replaced it.  </p><p>“Would you like to have dinner first? I’ll cook-but I’m no chef,” she added, grinning crookedly at him. </p><p>His heart stopped, and he was all too aware that his mouth was still hanging open. </p><p>“I’d really like that. And Chef Giana?”  </p><p>“Yes, Sous Chef Bellamy?” she retorted, turning heel, and heading towards the front door.  </p><p>“Just so you know.... I can cook. I have a younger sister, Octavia, that I raised, and she got tired of instant noodles around third grade.” He could not believe he had just offered up, as in volunteered information, about Octavia.  </p><p>Confused, but comfortable, he trailed in behind Giana, taking in the small mudroom they had just walked in. Boxes and boxes of her things lined against the wall, leading out into the living room and beyond.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Siblings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Trying his hardest to remember when, and with who, he had last brought up the subject of his sister voluntarily, he did not notice Giana’s eyes cloud over with an all too familiar, but rarely seen, look-complete understanding. He had no way of knowing about her brother, her raising him identically to Bellamy’s childhood of Octavia.</p><p>“I had a younger brother that I raised. Peter. He, ah, died last year.” she offered quietly.</p><p>Bellamy’s deep brown eyes quickly found her emerald ones. Hesitantly, he took her hand in his. Her eyes snapped up to study his face, and he could see the underlying pain and grief she kept so well hidden. A piece of his heart broke for her, as he considered what he would do if he lost Octavia.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Gianna. Truly. I wish there were something I could do, or say, but I learned after O and I lost our mother that words aren’t enough.”</p><p>“Unfortunately, I know. I miss him every day. He was my best friend. He kept me from making stupid and impulsive decisions. Anyways. My mother is.... interesting, I guess you could say.”</p><p>“She’s alive?” Bellamy blurted, unable to stop the words. He could feel the heat of a blush creep up his neck.</p><p>Giana raised one eyebrow, and said laughingly, “You wouldn’t know it by looking at my family, eh?”</p><p>“No, no, that’s not what I-I just mean-” he stuttered, tripping over himself, worried he had offended her. He paused and watched as her slight smile became a full blown, face-splitting grin.</p><p>Like looking directly into the sun...</p><p>He realized he had been worried for no reason and felt as if a weight had been lifted. Smiling back, Bellamy noticed a strand of slightly curly hair fall out of her messy half-updo. Without thinking, Bellamy leaned forward and grasped the runaway hair in between his index finger and thumb, pulling on it like a bell. Her hair was like silk, and he could smell lavender, her shampoo, most likely.</p><p>Bellamy could not breathe, suddenly, upon realizing just how close they were to one another.</p><p>Her jade eyes went wide, and opening her mouth slightly, Giana murmured, “Bellamy...?”</p><p>Put her hair down, you absolute idiot, Bellamy’s internal voice snapped.</p><p>Quickly tucking the hair behind her ear, trying to ignore just how warm she was, he cleared his throat.</p><p>“So, ah-dinner?” Bellamy asked her, grinning, pretending for all the world that he was not absolutely captivated by his breathtaking (“Literally,” his mind supplied smarmily) new neighbor.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Rambling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gianna’s knowledgeable eyes bored into his, and she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. A small crease appeared between her eyebrows, and she sucked in a quick breath, and said without pausing, “I want to kiss you.” </p><p>Bellamy froze, still as a statue. He was not even sure if he was breathing anymore. Maybe he had misheard her, because there was simply no way that this goddess of a woman wanted him of all people. </p><p>Her breathing was heavy and erratic, eyes frantic, nervous, and she was gnawing on her bottom lip looking for all the world as if he were going to laugh in her face and walk out the door. Bellamy stepped closer to her and cupped her face in his large hands. Still looking like a frightened rabbit, Gianna sucked in a sharp breath.  </p><p>“I’m sorry, that was too forward, we’ve only known each other for a few hours and now I’m embarrassed and-” Gianna’s rambling was cut short by Bellamy pressing his lips against hers, softly, sweetly. He felt her melt against him, almost curling into his tall frame as her arms wrapped around his neck and his around her lithe waist.  </p><p>Running his tongue across her full bottom lip, she let out a breathless moan, so soft he almost didn’t hear it. Instantly, he wanted her with a vengeance. He wanted to be inside her, hear the noises she would make for him, only him. Bellamy somehow managed to shake the fog that was Giana from his head as she trailed a hand down his arm, and he pulled away, breathing hard. He didn’t want that to happen so fast; he wanted to take his time with this incredible woman who, for some reason, wanted him.  </p><p>Large, emerald eyes stared up at him, full of questions. Giana suddenly looked unsure, as if he regretted anything he had done.  </p><p>“Bellamy, if that was too much-” she started, but Bellamy quickly cut her off. </p><p>“I was getting carried away. I, ah, want you, but not so fast. You...” He took a breath unnecessarily, “You are someone I’d like to know longer than a night.”  </p><p>A sly smile curled across her face then. “I understand that. I’d like you for longer than a night, too, Bellamy.” She murmured, brushing strands of hair out of his eyes. Kissing the tip of his nose and smiling fondly at him, Bellamy’s heart stuttered.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Moonlight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They were sitting on her porch swing, slowly rocking back and forth, Giana’s legs cast out over his own, drinking the whiskey he had brought earlier. Every time they took a drink, they toasted. Sometimes to serious things, like his mother and Peter, but also silly, dorky ones that made him laugh until he could not breathe. </p><p>Twilight was falling, Bellamy’s favorite time of day, and, as he had learned when he voiced that thought, it was hers too. Of course. The warm Louisiana heat had cooled down to bearable that night, so Giana was comfortable, he thought, trying to keep his eyes away from her almost wholly exposed legs and stomach. He had never been known to try again after being shot down from a one-night stand (which is where he had worried it would have gone, had he not stopped), but something about this woman captivated him. </p><p>Giana was witty, and smart. Well educated. She had put herself through college, he recalled, slightly hazy as the whiskey made its way into his system. Had a hell of a lot more money than he had ever had, and yet she preferred to work as a medical examiner. She was a fighter, a survivor, protective of what was hers (he recalled the conversations they had had about Peter over dinner and the fierce sheen of protectiveness and love shone through easily in those expressive eyes).Bellamy felt terrifyingly on the precipice of falling for this woman, and he had not even known her a full twenty-four hours yet. But did time matter? Was time a measure of care, of love? he wondered. </p><p>“Bell, I’ve got a question,” Giana slurred slightly, grinned sheepishly at her slurring, and asked, “Can you care about someone more in a day than twenty years? Do you-d’you get what I mean?”<br/>He sat, stunned, convinced she had heard his thoughts and was fucking with him. But she continued to stare, propped herself up on one elbow to be closer so they were almost nose to nose. Bellamy again, was struck by her striking beauty. She was ethereal. Angelic. Perfect. She wanted him. Shaking his head, he answered,</p><p>“I think so. Time is not a measure of caring, I do not think. If that makes sense.”</p><p> He grinned at her and she laughed and hooted, </p><p>“I KNEW IT! You believe the same as I do. I’m sorry, I haven’t drunk in a while.”</p><p>Bellamy drank in her features and knew without doubt she would be the last thing he thought of before he fell asleep every night. Octavia was the only person in the world who truly knew him. There was no one else he really cared about. But then he glanced at Giana, who was leaning over him to pluck a flower off the railing, sniff it, and weave it into her hair, the setting sun catching strands of that jet black hair, and suddenly he was not so sure anymore.</p>
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